


Untitled Track No. 3

by sahdah



Category: Soul Eater
Genre: Broken Noses, DJ - Freeform, EDM - Freeform, F/M, Gen, Shuffling, bad language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-23
Updated: 2018-11-23
Packaged: 2019-08-28 04:18:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,413
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16716472
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sahdah/pseuds/sahdah
Summary: Summary: In which Soul becomes an internet sensation after a video of a well known shuffle chick links back to his underground youtube page he was sure no one would find.





	Untitled Track No. 3

**Author's Note:**

> This was created for soulmakazine2018 which was created by chaoticlivi-- thanks so much for all the work that you did to create this project! 
> 
> I fell into the edm hole of YouTube while watching "10 BEST SHUFFLE GIRLS" and the rest spawned from there. The visual art was created by me using Elena Cruz and Calvin Harris references. Hope you enjoy!

  **Untitled Track No. 3**

* * *

 

Ergonomically failing life, Soul slumps in his computer chair, face lit by the glow of his monitor, palming his forehead in disbelief at the growing number of hits on his YouTube channel. Five minutes ago he’d jumped from a respectable five hundred thousand to, he checks again, 1.3 million and counting.

His stint as a part-time/part-time EDM DJ was supposed to be just that. It wasn’t supposed to last forever-- two and a half years later no one was ever supposed to find out. He supposes he only has himself to blame, except that would be too responsible. _Wes_ is to blame. He was the a-hole who started setting gigs up at night clubs. Then Wes had taken it upon himself to start advertising for Soul and, while it stayed in Death City, it had been no big deal. Last week, though, he’d made the call for the cities best dancers to come throw down.

That night had been rekt, too. Nothing allows Soul to disassociate from the mundane reality he inhabits like music does. The EDM thing came about after the fight with his dad that got him kicked out. It wasn’t as if Eduardo would ever understand his piano, because if it didn’t conform to the classics it may as well not exist at all. Dad’s all or nothing attitude deafened him to a son trying to explain there was more than one way to be successful. But to sit there and have his father tell him he’d never amount to anything pushed Soul over the limit.

He hadn’t meant to actually flip the table but it happened anyway. Outcome? He’d been kicked out and then subsequently rescued by Wes, because his older brother couldn't bear to see him out on the streets. All of which made Soul very uneasy because if their dad found out, then he’d probably cut off Wes too.

So the DJ thing had been an act of desperation because Soul had to monetize and do so quickly. He _hated_ being a leech on anyone, especially his brother who was sticking his neck out for his sorry ass. Electronic dance music, as much as he hated it, was a way of giving his dad the middle finger, _and_ making some quick cash.

Had he thought he was going to actually start monetizing? Fuck no. His channel had never drawn in the necessary views. But that changed when someone uploaded a video of a chick cutting some serious shapes to his beats and then linked it to his underground YouTube channel. It was under his Soul Eater handle -- he’d had a phase in high school that he thought he’d hidden well enough. Then again, it had been his bright idea to recycle the tag as his DJ name one day after he’d stayed up past noon. Nothing good ever happens past noon.

The comments section of some of his favorite uploads have been blowing up. _Is that his actual hair color? Looks like he’s 90 but the beatz r sic. THISSSSSS!!!!_ It’s surprising to him that a strong majority are on the positive side. Like he legitimately hadn’t expected that.

As he scrolls, he sees a repeat icon of a book with messages like: _I’m so glad you’re putting out more music!!!_ He thinks he’s seen the icon before. Hand hovering with uncertainty on his mouse, he clicks back through his earlier music posts-- back when his videos were of his piano pieces, like 5 years ago with at most two digit view counts.

When he first started mixing his own beats Soul unlisted his personal piano pieces, thinking that would be sufficient distance.

There is a comment on his third piano piece and it’s as if his heart skips a beat. It’s a message from the same icon: _I don’t know why but your music just speaks to me. I’ve been going through some really hard things and it feels as if this just gets it. Keep posting your stuff, you’re amazing!_

The message is four years old, but by then he had given up on his channel and mostly ignored the notifications until it became impossible to do so-- today.

Throughout the history of his very sporadic posting, the icon pops up with notes of gratitude or inspiration. For some reason it makes his chest flutter. He had foolishly assumed no one listened to his music. But it’s clear this person has been following him for years and he’d just left their notes ignored. A small guilty part of him feels like an ass and yet, it’s the internet. For all he knows, username 4242books564 could be a middle aged man with a bad cigarette habit on the other side of those words, lights glinting off glasses in a smoke filled room like some creepy lurker.

The surface of the desk is cool on his forehead as Soul rolls it back and forth -- no, the words don’t give off that vibe. He can feel his eyes crossing as he tries to focus on the dark shadow and closes his eyes. See, while the words touch him in a way -- it’s the bit about the girl who was at the show that has really thrown him off. In a perfect world, he fantasizes that they’re the same person.

A week ago at the club, she’d come out of nowhere and just lit up the dance floor. In fact, he had gone off script and in the moment, came up with beats on the fly.

It felt-- he sighs, head rolling to the side, hand shaking the mouse to keep the screen from locking. It felt like they were on the same wavelength or frequency or something.

When she moved, he anticipated by remixing chords and bass drops, and she responded.

Growing up in the Nevada wasteland known as Death City, you don’t appreciate how striking the color green is until it’s seared into your brain. Soul remembers a vacation his family took to Colorado when he was maybe six, back when he was genuinely happy. Even though there was snow all around, the trees were a vibrant forest green-- he’d never quite seen that color again-- until that girl looked up.

Honestly, his memory of the color had faded over the years -- that was, until that girl turned and gave him a brilliant smile. It was like a defibrillator had been taken to his memories, shocking them back to technicolor life or something-- nothing sucked more than that night ending.

Soul hasn’t seen the girl since, nor does he expect to. The universe rarely gives him what he wants anyway, so instead of getting out there, he spends his time in Wes’s spare room writing songs and pretending that life isn’t just passing him by. He whiles away his time between there and his IRL job at the local piano store where he maintains pristine instruments that aren’t his.

After the sun goes down, Soul tunes the pianos at Macabre Melodies, which at first struck him as a tame name for a music store-- Death City has a municipal wide running inside joke. It’s not his shop, but he was trusted with a set of shop keys. Many times, he goes in to work on the pianos after a show. The neighboring tenants, a quiet book store and Deathbucks, are normally vacant during the ungodly hours he keeps.

Soul exists in the in between times. He keeps dead shift hours-- there’s just something about exiting a shop after working all night to the morning sun tinging the horizon a delicate shade of pink. That’s his favorite time of day because there’s no one around. After the pianos are tuned, he sits there for hours, playing the various models-- but his favorite is a Bosendorfer tucked away in a dark room with heavy drapes.

That’s where he found himself after the club. For the first time in a long time, he’d felt a sense of music needing to spill from his fingertips, just like the beats had in the heat of the moment at the club, but at the piano _his_ music had flowed.

...The ivory is cool beneath his finger pads as his hands glide up and down the keys. It’s the melody he’s been hearing since the club. Blue candles blaze to life around him illuminating the black pinstripe suit he’s wearing. The idea of a thought tickles the back of his mind but the music calls him. A door at the back of the room opens but he doesn’t look up. Doesn’t notice the black liquid on the checkered tiles creeping up on him, not until it laps at the soles of his almost mirror polished shoes.

“You know, I’ve always loved your playing.”

Soul’s hands crash discordantly on the keys, breaking the chords he had been crafting. His eyes focus on a delicate hand tracing the profile of the black enamel. It does something to him. Black materializes into a satin cocktail dress on the woman before him. She faces away from him, ashy blonde hair obscuring her face when she turns to the grand piano.

This is when he realizes he can’t speak.

Footsteps echo through the hall and a man appears on the opposite side of the piano. “You’re wasting your time, girl,” Eduardo says.

In his gut, Soul feels something is wrong. He wants to warn the girl, but his feet are glued to the black substance on the floor. The heartbeats in his chest are erratic. His father’s face is wrong, it’s all wrong. The face is red, the tiny, dark dots of his irises magnified grotesquely by the white sclera and round black frames, but his father is shrinking and growing at the same time.

This is his recurring nightmare! Soul tries to wake himself. _It isn’t real! This isn’t real!_ But it feels real, and he hates how he wants to simultaneously hide and cry, face pressed against the keys.

“You’re wrong!” The girl shouts it at the demon.

It’s like she’s breathed life into a tiny ember. Soul looks up, but he still can’t see her face. Only her left hand is jutting slightly back towards him, palm up. It’s an invitation. Soul reaches out…

...and subsequently smacks Wes in the face.

“Sonuva--”

The dream shatters like a fallen dinner plate, leaving Soul feeling disoriented, but he recalls the idea of green eyes, maybe, a head starting to turn to him, a face that gives him courage. He needed to see that face and his brother fucked it up.

“Wes!” he yells. “What the hell?”

Chaos ensues as each defends his own actions against the reactions of the other. Both brothers blaming and arguing over one another until Soul loses it.

“STOP!” he yells. “Fuck, stop-- what the-- idiot!” Anxiety on maximum thrust, Soul heaves, sucking in breaths to calm his fight and flight reaction to a situation he wasn’t expecting. As a general rule, he never dreams, and even if he does they’re vague-- rarely about anything worth remembering, let alone enough to break his body’s sleep paralysis.

“Gaw-damn.” Comes the muffled, broken nose response from his older brother. “You thounded like you were in throuble.” Wes fixes his nose with a sickening crunch, then tries again. “Are you-- what were you dreaming?”

His mind is blank where the dream once occupied it. Maybe green...but that would be impossible. “No idea.” The front of Wes’s face is gory red from the nose bleed and Soul feels a punch of guilt. “Man, let me get you the peas.” Vaulting himself from his bed like a sloth into a lazy river, Soul’s mind spins while he makes his way to the freezer and the two year old bag of peas-- they don’t eat them, ever. It’s the best memory Soul has of his mom. Any time he hurt himself she’d grab the peas.

Sheepishly, he hands his brother the beat up plastic bag of Green Giant. “Sorry.”

Wes waves him off. “S’okay.” He breathes a sigh of relief for a moment before cursing, “Shit!”

They share a look and Soul looks up at the wall clock. “Fuck!” At the same time his phone buzzes with a message from his boss.

[[Hiya Heyo Hello Soul, I’m locking up the store. Let yourself in whenever-- we have three new instruments that need to be tuned. I trust you to write down your hours.]]

His right hand scrubs vigorously through the white-top, overgrown mess of his hair. Sounds of disbelief bubbling incoherently, he doesn’t deserve the boss he has. Fingers flying over the cracked screen of his iPhone, he sends an apologetic response to the message. It’ll only take him a few minutes to get there this late on his bike.

Again, he glances at Wes with a new wave of guilt. His brother was trying to make sure he wouldn’t be late to work. Another person he doesn’t deserve, and that same person waves him off with a, “Go, you’re already late. I’b fine.”

It isn’t until he’s stopped at the traffic light a block from the music store that the hunger pain in his stomach makes its presence known and Soul realizes he hasn’t eaten in half a day. But he can’t afford to waste anymore time-- the worst part is, the only places left open this late are the basic food trucks who’ve cornered the market on late night club goers. All the delivery places have been closed for hours.

This is the time of day he likes the best-- when everything is closed and the streets are mostly vacant. Perhaps it’s the emptiness that makes him feel more open, but he doesn’t dwell on that feeling too much. His fingers are actually itching to get to work. He has that sensation in the back of his mind like the music is dammed up, waiting for the slightest pin drop to break the surface tension.

“So you’re the one that drives that monster.”

The cheery tone is so juxtaposed by the darkness of the night that at first he thinks he’s imagined the voice. Then he hears the jingle of a closing bell that alerts him to the fact that he’s not alone.

“Hi!” His eyes zone in on a small figure locking up the door next to the music shop. “I’m Maka.”

Blank, his mind is blank, completely devoid of coherent speech. “Uh.” He is eloquence at its finest. “Hey…?”

He’s now stutter stepped into the outer orbit of her personal bubble which is flirting with his access to the store. It’s not that he avoids girls, but it’s late. The street is nearly pitch black except for the small halo of light from the display window of the shop she exited. It backlights her now, allowing the darkness to blur her features like a soft caress. Observations aside, he’s a dude, a big one at that, and she’s maybe shoulder height. Death only knows her age. It’s not like there’s a sign he can triple check for 18 and over; going off height alone this girl could be fourteen. And while he knows she shouldn’t be worried, there is an uncomfortable feeling lurking within him like he doesn’t want to talk to her without some supervision.

“Nice bike,” she says, walking over to admire Matilda. “I’ve been curious about who owns her. Papa always says ‘The most dangerous part of a motorcycle is the nut that connects the seat to the handlebars’.”

Even through the darkness, he can feel the intensity of her eyes and ends with a lame, “yeah, I do--uh-- Hey now!” Awkward head shaking and a wish that he could disappear into the darkness because his brain can’t make words.

There’s the sound of bubbled laughter that seems to make the glow of light even warmer. That, and she doesn’t appear to want to exit the conversation she started, so he takes his keys out to try and unlock the door. That’s the first time he’s heard that joke.

“My papa has the worst dad jokes,” Maka says like they’ve been talking all their life. “I take it you’re also the one responsible for the music too, yeah?”

Brows furrowed deep because he only ever plays when he’s completed all his duties, his eyes dart in her direction, taking the rest of his skeptical face with him. He’s going to press that statement, but ends up humming in bemused affirmation.

Maka of the darkness voiding physical description continues with a confident, “Thought so.”

The bronze key finally sinks into its hole, bringing with it a measure of silence Soul isn’t sure he wants to or is willing to break. His mind is still going over the idea that she has accurately guessed what he drives, has apparently heard him play music, and her name -- it feels like it should be familiar to him, somehow, except he can’t place it. The lock clicks, breaking the beat they both must have been timing because they start talking at exactly the same moment. Then stop. Then start again. She laughs and he cracks a grin.

“Ah,” he begins cautiously -- he has to go in, he’s already really late to work, but her voice is alluring in a way that usually only music gets to him, and he needs a moment alone to consider whether or not that’s a good thing. He notices her head tilting, as if she’s waiting for whatever he hasn’t decided to say next when his stomach lets out the loudest rumble he’s ever heard.

His mortification only grows as she starts giggling with an, “Oh my Death, you’re going to die.”

“Death child?” he ventures, letting it hang. He’s a transplant to the area. He’d been born in Phoenix.

“Born and raised,” she laughs good naturedly. “What gave me away?”

Soul has lost control of his face, rolling his eyes, and before he knows what he’s doing, he’s quoting Resident Evil. “Maybe the ‘you’re all going to die’ attitude.” It cracks Soul up; he can’t count how many times he and Wes have watched that movie.

A small hand reaches out to smack his arm playfully. “OMG! I love the Red Queen.”

“No,” he blurts.

“Yes!” she insists. “It’s one of my favorite movies -- but, seriously, when was the last time you ate….?”

“Soul,” he supplies, finally. There is a hint of something, but it disappears almost immediately. “Ah, I’m pretty sure I ate breakfast before noon.”  

“Soul--” He shouldn’t like how she rounds and lengthens the long O, but he sort of does. “--that was, like, maybe ten hours ago,” she chides him.

It’s funny that this is the easiest conversation he’s had in a while. Strange, really, because he only just met her five minutes ago. “It’s been a weird day.”

“Ugh, those are the worst,” she acknowledges. “Hey, tell you what. Why don’t I let you get back to what you’re here to do. There’s a taco truck like a few blocks away I normally stop at-- do you like tacos?” Her tone goes decidedly questioning and he can’t help but think it’s captivating.

“Wait, what are you doing?” he asks a bit bluntly, but with a hint of a smile all the same.

“Buying you tacos.” She laughs. “So you don’t die.”

He’s taken aback. Aside from Wes and Mom, no one has ever gone out of their way for him like this. “You don’t have to.”  

Maka is already backpedaling fluidly with a hop skipping gait, and something about it draws his eyes to the shoes she’s wearing. “I want to!” she yells back and disappears around the corner.

* * *

 

Concentrating on the task at hand isn’t happening. The past four times he’s looked at the clock, he swears the hands haven’t moved. Most of the lights are on in the shop portion of the store, he’d even turned on the lights at the register to illuminate most of the floor, but he’s still annoying himself. This is stupid, plenty of people own the same sort of shoes...it doesn’t mean it’s _her_.

Leg tapping incessantly while his fingers move over out-of-tune scales on the Yamaha he’s working on, Soul tries to think of anything other than the YouTube video that had been mostly zeroed in on the girl’s footwork. How many girls in Death City own a pair of black kicks with white soles and white straps? The save screen on his phone informs him he’s been dicking around for the past fifteen minutes, which means the actual shop clock is in fact...dead. He grins but then his shoulders sag -- what is he doing with his life?

A discordant crash of forehead and keys echo in his brain while he tries to not think of the club girl and Maka in the same context because that’s not fair to anyone. Yet, without his permission, the song evolves. Like a morbid puppet pulled up by strings of sheer will, Soul’s body straightens. He walks to the Bosendorfer like a man possessed because the instrument is perfectly tuned, and it’s the only way he can confront the things he can’t process in words.

Time passes differently when his fingers are tracing ivory, but the smell of pork and onions and cilantro breaks his concentration, and he stares at his face reflected in the blue black of the fallboard, blinking.

A muffled, “Shit,” makes him look around the propped lid of the grand to see Maka standing in front of the curtains, holding a bag which must contain tacos.

“What the -- how did you get in?” he asks, phone in hand checking the time that tells him he’s been lost in his head for the past half hour. “How long have you been there?”

Soul still can’t make out her features in the dim light of the Bosendorfer’s lair, and if it weren’t for the very real bag in her hands emitting the mouth-watering smell of corn tortillas, salsa, and magic meat, he’d bet his life he’s being haunted by an actual apparition.

“Um, not long. Honest! The line was long and Black Star wouldn’t comp me, even though that asshat owes me big time,” she mutters darkly, but he’s lost. None of it makes much sense to him. “Here!”

The command is followed by movement with intent and Soul instinctively understands what she’s going to do but can’t articulate the words to deter her. The piano is sacred and must be protected at all costs -- his body responds to the physical threat by moving as fast as his ass can leave the bench, legs carrying him towards her even as Maka’s small hand thrusts a bag at his chest. His hand catches hers as he side steps, taking her with him, spinning her in a precise one-eighty away from the priceless instrument, spare hand firmly on her small waist, brown taco bag third wheeling to this perfectly, completely coincidental, orchestrated ballroom moment.

“Not here,” are the only strained words he can form, apologetic (for the unasked-for physical contact), but firm (that piano is more valuable than his current net worth).

They burst into the bright light of the shop space, where he immediately removes his hands. The taco bag, now weightless in the air, is caught by him a split second later after he realizes they both let go.

Green eyes wide, Maka takes a step back, her ash blonde hair almost glowing as Soul’s eyes try to adjust to the brightness.

“I. Am. So sorry,” he says, setting the bag down on the worktop next to the wall very carefully. “I-- the piano--” he gesticulates behind him “-- food-- no.” Nothing makes sense as in the light he recognizes her for who she is. She’s the girl. From the club. _She’s_ the girl. “Sorry. Shouldn’t have grabbed you-- Bosie-- Bosendorfer--” His arms continue trying to make his point while he still can’t speak.

“Ah…” Maka tries, but is also at a loss of words and stops. “I-- your hair.” Her hand is waving, but that isn’t right either. “You’re Soul-- _Eater?!_ ”

* * *

 

“Wait, what?”

“I get it, about the piano, that was stupid, but I heard you playing and wanted to see for myself _,_ ” she says, recovering more quickly. “You’re Soul Eater,” she stresses again.

“Actually, it’s Soul Evans. Soul Eater is the gamertag I used in high school,” he says, digging into the bag to retrieve a brightly packaged taco, eyeing it cautiously. Primitive instinct warns that anything this particular shade of electric blue is most likely poisonous-- it smells amazing, though.

“I was at your show the other night, which was amazing by the way! But you’re also the piano person that I’ve been trying to meet for like five years!”

The taco in his mouth is forcing him to listen and he’s not one hundred percent sure what he’s hearing is actually correct, but after painfully swallowing an unchewed chunk of hard taco shell and nearly wheezing, eyes watering, he says. “It was you in the viral video then?”

The girl must also be able to read minds, or she’s the most observant person he’s ever met because she hands him her drink with an embarrassed, “Yeah. It was me.” Then to his puckered face she says, “I should have warned you -- that’s kombucha. Star makes it -- I apologize he uploaded that video without asking.”

Soul winces at the bite of acidic ginger and carbonation rendering him once again speechless.

“But, Kid’s dad is my godfather.”

He’s sure she’s speaking English, but he’s so lost. “Aaand, you lost me,” he admits. Her rapid blinking is becoming very mesmerizing, and he might be starting to enjoy throwing her off, or he would if he didn’t feel so off balance himself.

“You asked how’d I’d gotten in...to the dungeon room…” Maka trails off looking at him. Soul notices her eyes dart to his hair again, and he scrubs at it self consciously before replacing his old beanie. “Don’t,” she says. “I like it.”

 _Really?_ he thinks. Her statement shouldn’t have any sort of effect, but the beanie comes away in his hand at any rate. “So...Kid? Godfather?”

“Oh, Macabre Music is owned by my godfather, Charles Viduus. He also owns the building next door. My dad and I have rented it since my--” there’s a slight pause, but she keeps going “--mom opened the bookshop. Kid is his son. ”

Soul thinks about this for a minute. “Uriel?” he questions.

“I didn’t know anyone knew him by that name,” she says, but something about the way she says it makes Soul think someone is going to have a reckoning.

“We went to the same private school,” he says, now dimly aware that it could indicate something about his background.

If it does, her face remains neutral. “Shibusen.”

He nods, but is now curious if she maybe attended as well.  “I mean I know of him, and he’s obviously my boss’ son, but I don’t know him, know him,” he explains. They seem to be acquainted with the same things, but he feels like he wouldn’t have missed her if she had -- she’s too full of life. “So... you live next door?” That would explain how she knows about his music, he supposes.

“Mhm,” she hums. “You’re amazing, by the way. I’ve wanted to tell you in person for a long time.”

He gives her a calculating look and continues eating the food she brought back. “I’m not sure I believe you,” he says skeptically.

“Why not?”

“Well, I could have been some old dude on the other side of the wall,” he says, but maybe he’s projecting his earlier fear about not knowing who could be on the other side of the internet -- that technically could be applied to a wall.

“You’re not wrong but, I don’t know,” she says softly, seemingly having difficulty putting something into words. “Ever since I first heard your music, it felt like it was speaking to me.” He notices that she’s picking at the nails of her left hand with the right. “Something about your song made me want to start living again, dancing again.”

Soul is distracted by her hands waving vaguely with this revelation.

“Sooo,” he’s trying to focus on his question instead of the patterns she’s tracing in the air, “you used to dance -- and started dancing again because of my weird ass piano playing?” It’s hard to believe.

It’s as if he’s reminded her that he only met her two hours ago. If he was a betting man, he would have thrown down on her ending the conversation right there, but she shocks him by launching into an explanation instead. It’s a good thing he isn’t.

“Yeah, so when my mom left it was really hard.” Her hand goes up to stop him from saying anything, “She had her reasons for leaving -- my dad fucked up but, like, she was looking for an out. He’s a horrible flirt but she drove him to it, _she_ didn’t want us and it took me a long time to get that, but I did because of your music.” There are a myriad of expressions crossing her features and she ends with her cheeks puffed out. “I’m sorry that’s -- wow that’s too much to unload on someone all at once -- but my point is, when I was angry, your music mirrored my anger. And it’s weird because it didn’t matter -- your music helped me process my emotions, and I came to terms with it. Only, recently your music has changed a lot and, ohmygod I’m talking so much!”

“Please,” Soul speaks up, voice hoarse. “Go on.”

Ash blonde hair shaking, she looks at him. “When did you start DJing?”

“After my dad kicked me out,” he says. “Felt like the right thing to do.” He shrugs.

* * *

 

They talk while Soul tunes the Yamaha before moving on to the other two.

Maka doesn’t show signs of wanting to leave, pulling out a large textbook and notebook for a while. Soul doesn’t press her, after asking a few times if she felt alright being in the store so late with a basic stranger, to which Maka threatens to chuck her text book at him if he doesn’t stop.

“It’s better than being stuck with a basic bitch,” she says matter of factly. Soul takes her at her word. “Look, a stranger is just a friend you haven’t met,” she says.

Keeping his hands busy helps him not stare at her. She asks about school and he tells her how he didn’t graduate from Shibusen because he’d been shipped out to Juilliard, only to be let go-- she’s heard his music-- and somehow gets it.

“Their loss,” she says.

She asks him questions about his music, about what he does, about his musical influences. It’s easy to talk to her, to lose himself in the conversation and open up to someone for once with actual words.

Maka tells him about university -- she was on her way to the library to study all night but decided to take a chance on him since she has all of two friends: the mysterious Black Star and Kid, the former an overprotective idiot, the latter the only person who can keep him in line. The three of them used to do everything together, but she sees them far less since the boys started dating a few months ago.

It’s as he’s wrapping it up on the third piano that the door to the shop implodes; Maka immediately jumps down between him and the door in a defensive position. The dream from earlier crashes into his consciousness, and if he weren’t in fear for her safety, while simultaneously trying to process that _she’s_ the one being protective, he might be in awe of the series of serendipities.    

A smooth voice says, “Didn’t we just discuss using the _minimum_ force necessary-- as in my keys?”

“--Not answering her phone constitutes this as the proper use of force, babe!” a louder voice cuts through the settling dust. “Shit--” Maka’s phone starts ringing in her hand “-- I forgot to press the call button.” Belly laughter leaves Soul bewildered, hanging onto his electronic tuner and piano wrench as his only means of protection.

“Star you’re helpless.”

“You think I’m hot--”

From the corner of his eye Soul watches the small paperback Maka had pulled out to read a half hour ago after she finished studying sail across the threshold of the door followed by a confirmed hit. “Fuck--MAKA!”

A young man in an impeccable black suit crosses into the room, flicking a piece of dust from his jacket. “I tried to tell him you were fine but, well, you know how he is.” Maka saves the ‘over it’ look for Soul as she turns to him on her way back to her perch on the work table.

“Sup, bitches!” A guy, in a muscle tank and jean shorts that leave nothing to modesty, walks in, with radioactive cyan blue hair and a strong smell of jalapeno, pinching his nose.

 _Tonight must be the night for nosebleeds,_ Soul thinks. The guys face is slightly tinged with blood as he returns the book to its owner. Soul cautiously turns his head in Maka’s direction, but the girl sits demurely reading the book giving no effs as it were.

“That’s the third time you’ve broken my schnoz, Maka,” he says, completely unfazed as he crosses to the shop towel holder and mops his face up. She only shrugs.

After this he goes to Soul, “Eater, my man--” his hand is up, fist bump loaded. It’s been a strange night indeed, and Soul reciprocates only because he’s sure he knows this guy from somewhere “-- You’re welcome!”

“For?” Soul drawls out, still trying to connect the pieces.

“Going viral. Gotta hand it to myself, I did some sick editing on that video, right Maks?”

So this is Black Star-- “Bernard?” The name pops into his mind. Last time Soul saw this kid he had dirty blonde hair and he had tried hitting on him. Wasn’t perturbed in the slightest when Soul told him he didn’t roll that way.

“Evans,” the guy says. “Long time, yo. But no, not anymore. I divorced my family a few years back, pawned my car for a food truck, and made the name thing legit.” He then gets in Soul’s face, who is still processing that this guy's legal name is, in fact, Black Star. “Just so were clear, bruh. You upset my boy’s god-sis in anyway and you’re...”

“...dead,” Soul supplies, helpfully when it becomes evident Star is warring with threat choices.

“Oh man you have no idea what you’ve gotten yourself into.” A wide bright grin splits his face and a hand built like a catcher’s squeezes Soul’s shoulder, “There’s no going back, my man,” he laughs then shouts to Maka. “I like this guy!”  

There is a cryptic head nod from the vicinity of the work table. Kid walks around Star to shake Soul’s hand. “Don’t worry about the door, I’ll let my father know. You tuned the three.” Kid surveys the room. “Even with all the added distractions.”

Soul relaxes his hold on the wrench he’s still white knuckle clutching. “Yeah.”

“My father has a great appreciation for the work you do. Good to see you, don’t be a stranger,” he says, giving Soul a meaningful look. “Maka’s always been a big fan of the music you make.”

The wall that Soul uses to keep himself separated from the rest of society has been irrevocably breached. In retrospect he was the one that threw the grappling hook over-- it had been ignorant to think that no one would understand what he was trying to say with his music. Perhaps what he hadn’t anticipated was a reality where someone else could potentially feel the same way. He’d tried to hide himself behind his music, but instead put himself out there, his loneliness, frustrations, and anxieties. Instead of staying isolated, someone had listened. They’d actually stopped to listen to what he had to say and gone out of their way to make sure he knew it. To make sure he knew he wasn’t alone.

Black Star had a point; nothing would be the same.

The four exit the building as the sky is starting to tinge gold on the eastern horizon.

“Damn, I could use some waffles,” Star shouts, waking the dead and scaring some sleeping pigeons in the process. “Who’s with me?!”

Kid’s hand has already slipped into his boyfriend’s back pocket as they walk towards the brightly emblazoned ‘Ninja Tacos’ truck parked behind Soul’s bike. Maka unlocks the door to the bookshop and tosses her bag in, then locks up as Soul pockets his building keys, rooted to the concrete in uncertainty. The guys are already blasting music from the truck that Soul immediately recognizes.

His phone vibrates in his pocket, a message from Wes. [[Running later than usual? Not worried just checking in.]]

The cursor blinks, waiting on his response.

“So, you coming or not?” Maka asks, extending an open hand back to him.

There really isn’t any going back, he thinks as he reaches forward, enveloping her small hand within his. With the other hand, he sends back a two word message, as supplied by his most common responses: [[l8r t8tr]]

“Yeah -- wanna follow on the bike?” he asks, not really expecting her to go for it.

Her hand squeezes his. “Hells yeah!”

From the truck Star yells, “You wound me!”

“He’ll get over it,” she tells Soul.

“I bet,” he says, handing her his spare helmet from the saddle bag. Maka climbs on behind him, and wraps her arms around his waist before he can give her other holding options. His phone buzzes with Wes’s response but he’ll check it later.

“This okay?” she asks in his ear.

Truthfully? It’s better than okay. He responds, “Yeah. Hold on.”

From the cab of the truck Star yells, “You’re going to die!”  Kid laughs as they pull away from the curb to follow the orange bike.

Soul doesn’t hear any of it; he’s lost to the sound of a song that plays in his heart that continues to expand and evolve. Today is going to be a good day.

 


End file.
